


Thankful

by TigerLilyNoh



Series: The Uncomfortable Adventures of Sam in Law School [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Depressed Sam, Law Student Sam, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam-Centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Thanksgiving, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, past Tyson Brady/Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLilyNoh/pseuds/TigerLilyNoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm a Supernatural fic writer, who is currently going to law school in the Bay Area, so I figured I'd write some vignettes of Sam in law school.</p><p>Collection theme: Sam chose law school over hunting, but it wasn't exactly how he'd imagined it.</p><p>This ficlet: Sam struggles with depression & stress during the Thanksgiving break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thankful

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: This story contains discussion of suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Also, special thanks to Lastarael for beta reading this.

Sam checked his phone.  It was Dr. Neves calling again for what must've been the third time that evening.  He wanted to keep dodging her, but worried that at a certain point she'd send campus security to his room.  He saved the latest draft of his State and Local Tax outline, then answered the call.

He didn't bother greeting her.  "Before you ask, I'm fine."  

"You missed our appointment.  I was worried about you."  Despite the expression of concern her voice was the normal reassuring calm she used at their meetings.

"I'm just really busy studying."  He looked at his book and handout covered floor, then rubbed his stinging eyes.

"Sam, you know that you're likely to be facing a lot of triggers right now.  It's important to study, but if you don't take care of yourself all that effort will end up hurting you."

"I know."  He sighed as he leaned back against the side of his bed.

"Are you sleeping?"

"Not as much as I should be."

"When was the last time you ate?"

Sam looked around his room.  There wasn't any food left in there besides a box of saltines and most  of a ten pound bag of rice.  Everyone was so caught up with studying for finals that the student clubs weren't meeting anymore, cutting off 20% of his reliable meals.  Even Brady was hunkered down up in Palo Alto preparing for his own exams.  Sam had spent too much time trying to remember when he'd last had a decent meal.

"I'm still on campus.  Let me buy you dinner," Dr. Neves offered.

She knew he didn't have any money.  It was embarrassing to be so obviously dependent on the charity of others.  He didn't want to put anyone out.  He didn't want to have that failure of his exposed.

"I couldn't—"

"You not showing up to our appointment gave me an hour's pay in exchange for catching up on Dexter.  I'm trading you dinner for that hour of honesty back."  

He appreciated her attempt to give him some illusion of bargaining power.

"I don't want to talk about everything in the student union."

"Kabab and Curry, it's a few blocks from campus,” she suggested.  “It's small and quiet."

"Isn't it against the rules for us to be fraternizing?"  

"You're about twenty years too young for me."

* * *

 

He grabbed his bike and sweatshirt, then started riding across campus.  It was already dark at only 6:30pm, but for all he knew it could've been later—he hadn't left his dorm all day.  The chill clear air made him huff a laugh.  Almost anywhere else this sort of weather the day before Thanksgiving would've been a blessing, but here the 55° air was bemoaned.

Most of the campus was cleared out, having recessed for the holiday and study week before final exams.  Though he still had to dodge the occasional skateboarder, in all probability they were undergrads.  

Stanford had been an incredible experience, but they took themselves too seriously.  He could travel to any number of cities in the country or the world and strangers would be impressed by the fact that he'd graduated from there.  The accomplishment told everyone who would listen that he was bound to do great things—well, at the very least his future earnings would reflect great things.  But he'd left.  He'd been hurt and wanted to heal in a gentler place.  It wasn't that Santa Clara Law was an easier school; in some ways it was harder.  But it was lesser known—beyond the microcosm of the Bay Area it was barely heard of—yet it had nearly everything he needed.  The law school was involved in community service and social justice, which appealed to his altruistic predisposition.  Also, the small law school was focused on taking care of the students' emotional well being—hell, he'd taken three different courses that started each lesson with guided meditation exercises.  Welcome to the Bay Area.

He shuddered at the thought of being at Stanford last Thanksgiving.  It had been a horrible enough experience to begin with, but having some distance and perspective on the incident had made him grateful for the small community of support he currently had.  Tomorrow would be a difficult day.  He knew it, but he'd been subtly preparing himself for it.

The restaurant was on the corner of a dark intersection, bordering a residential area.  There weren't any cars around, there were barely any signs of life.  As he started locking his bike to a stop sign he heard a rustling in the bushes across the street.  His hand immediately went for the switchblade in his pocket.  It was just a cat or something.  Nothing was after him.  Nobody was interested in him.  It was better that way.

The restaurant was indeed small and fairly quiet—probably because most people were getting ready for the looming holiday feast.  Dr. Neves was already there and waiting for him.  She wasn't even bothering to look at a menu.  Clearly she knew what she was doing.

"How've you been?" she asked as he sat down across from her.  

He felt a little uncomfortable seeing her outside of her office.  It made her more of a person, nearly a friend—he wasn't sure that he was ready for the maintenance and vulnerability involved in friendships.

"Do you mean with school or otherwise?"

"Whatever you want to talk about first."  She smiled politely.  He knew she'd eventually ask him about all the major topics.

"My ex came back into my life."

"Brad?"

"Brady—close though."  He was just grateful she remembered that his ex was a guy.  "We've seen each other a few times this month.  He wants things to go back to how they were—at least as close as possible."

Sam noticed that he was compulsively thumbing the blunt edge of his place setting's knife.  She watched him become aware of the physical tell. He  thoughtfully stopped, then placed his palms flat on the table.  Playing with a knife in front of one's psychiatrist was almost certainly a faux pas.

“What do you want from your relationship with him?"  She mercifully didn't mention the knife.

“I’m not sure.  Everything is so up in the air right now with finals coming up.  I don’t want to think about it.  I don’t want to make that decision.  It’s all too much.”  There were too many things in his mind to worry about.  He couldn’t even pin them all down.  It felt like there was always something lurking in the back of his head, waiting to spring forward, some  last-minute problem that would trip him up—something he couldn’t prepare for.  His fears were like those headaches, an ever-looming threat.

“Is he respecting your uncertainty and vulnerability?"  She was asking if Brady was taking advantage of him.  That was a fair concern.  

Back when they weren't on speaking terms he'd had a lot of harsh things to say about Brady.  The picture he'd painted wasn't pretty, and admittedly parts of it were objectively true.

“He’s not being… aggressive if that’s what you mean.  He wants to protect me, but if I tell him to back off he’ll listen.”  Sam shifted in his seat.  "I can spot his bullshit from a mile off.  I believe him when he says he loves me... I'm just not sure I'm ready to have a serious relationship again.  I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

“Does he know about your headaches?”

“Not really.  I’ve had a few headaches around him, but I haven’t told him how bad things are.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I don’t want to worry him.  He’d want to stay down here with me more—he’s got his own finals to deal with.”  Sam absentmindedly crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively.  “I don’t want him to know about the hallucinations.  I don’t want him to ask me about them, what I imagine."

"You're scared that he'll judge you because of them?"

For a moment Sam couldn't speak.  He didn't want to admit it for fear that maybe he should be judged based on the hallucinations.  The things he saw were terrifying and they came straight from his tortured brain.  His childhood had been full of things that go bump in the night and the bodies they left behind—it was no wonder he was imagining such horrible things.  But how could anyone begin to understand that without knowing what he'd been through?

The waiter dropped off their food and Dr. Neves allowed the silence to stretch while she assembled her plate.  She was inviting him to work up the courage to tell her as much as he dared.

"The hallucinations and my dreams... I have violent thoughts."  Sam didn't meet her eyes while he spoke.  It was hard enough to face himself.  "I don't ever think about hurting people.  It's not me hurting anyone.  I just see them dying."

"Who's dying?"  Her voice was noncritical, but he noticed that she hadn't taken a bite of her food.

"All sorts of people, people I've never met or seen….  That's not true.  I dreamt about Jess dying.  She was bleeding and there was a fire…."  He played his words back and worried how it must sound.  "I wasn't there, when she died.  I was at the library, there's video of me—"

"I don't think you had anything to do with her death."  Dr. Neves seemed sincere.  "Do you feel responsible for it?"

"Yeah."

"Survivor's guilt is normal when you lose a loved one, but it's not your fault that she died."

"I just wonder….  If I had been there.  If Brady had been there."  Sam ran his fingers through his hair while sighing.  He knew that that train of thought was only asking for more pain.  Looking for something to preoccupy his twitchy hands, Sam began dishing up his own food.  He wanted to try to continue the conversation, but he wasn't going to fall into the trap of what-if.  "My mom died the same way—almost the same way."

"It was a fire?"

"Yeah."

"You're not responsible for what happened to Jessica or your mother,” she offered in her perpetually calm, reassuring voice.  “This guilt you're having is only hurting you.  There's so much going on in your life that's causing you stress, which has to be making your health worse.  You need to forgive yourself and focus on self care."

"I'm trying," he said reassuringly.

"I know you are."

* * *

 

They chatted about his classes and the standard finals-related stress.  She suggested he take up some hobbies that could be an outlet for his worries.  It was hard to picture himself painting, but he made a mental note to try it out during the winter break.  Throughout the conversation he could feel her moving through some list of topics.  As more items were checked off he could sense her getting closer to asking him about last Thanksgiving.

"You can ask me about Thanksgiving, what happened," Sam offered.  "I know that's why you wanted to check on me.  You don't have to skirt the issue."

She got right to the point.  "Do you have suicidal thoughts?"  

"Sometimes... I have thoughts about dying.  Most of the time it's not me doing it."  He thought about the rustling in the bushes when he was locking up his bike.  Two or three times a day he was ready for something to lunge at him from the shadows.  "When I was growing up, there were... a lot of times when I was scared."

She'd probably read his full medical report and knew about the two dozen old, poorly-healed fractures that had been discovered while investigating the source of his headaches.  He didn't even know whether he wanted to correct the assumption that his dad had been the one to inflict all those fractures while he was a kid.  It was practically true, whether it was his dad throwing the punch or merely exposing him to a monster's punch.

"Are you scared now?"

"That I'll die?"

"That or just in general."

"Every day... almost every day.  It's the days when I'm not scared that really get me, like maybe I don't care.  Like I'll just wake up and nothing will be different, but I just won't find a way to make this all worth it."

"What do you do on those days?"

"For awhile I would get high with anyone in my dorm that would let me spend the day with them.  The last time I asked Brady to come down.  He dragged me to dinner and a movie."  They'd also had sex, but he didn't want to derail the conversation into the delicate territory of whether it was wise to fuck while severely depressed.

"Tell me what happened last year.  Did you try to reach out to anyone?"

"I didn't know anyone that well.  I thought I could just be alone, but... it was too much."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

"I don't think so.  I think it was an accident."

It was the first Thanksgiving after Jessica had died—she'd loved the holiday and made a big deal each year they were together.  A joyous celebration of their little improvised family.  It was peaceful comfort, the feeling of home he'd never had as a kid.

But last year she was dead, Brady and he still weren't on speaking terms, and the campus was empty of almost everyone he knew.  He didn't have anywhere to go, no one to call his family.

He drank too much, way too much.  He'd woken up in the ICU the next day.  His RA had found him unconscious in the shower.  When the EMT arrived his blood alcohol was at .41% and peaked at .43%.  If he'd been any smaller he would've undoubtedly died of alcohol poisoning.  

The school added the condition to his financial aid that he attend at least one alcoholic support group per week.  He had to get a signature  from each meeting's leader and everything.  He still drank, he just tried to avoid it when he was depressed or alone.  But on the plus side, his mandatory therapy appointments were greatly appreciated.

"Are you worried about how you'll handle tomorrow?"

"Maybe a little, but things are different than they were.  I'm not saying things are amazing, just that I have something—a few things going in my life again—"  An alarm on his phone interrupted him.  After silencing the alarm, he took a small pill bottle from his pocket.  He took a pill with some water and smiled at Dr. Neves.  "Life's not perfect."

"Nothing's perfect, so don't even strive for that."  She reflected.  "Holidays are very difficult for many people.  It’s a mistake to think that we can achieve some picturesque moment with our family and friends.  But often enough people don't have a family capable or willing to give them that love and support, and even their friends might be unavailable.  When things are hard like this, don't even strive for great.  Just look for the good and hold onto that."

"What if tomorrow I look around and can't find any good?"  Sam huffed a sad laugh.  "I  mean, it's Thanksgiving—that's kinda the point of the day."

"Don't beat yourself up—like I said, good, not great or perfect."  The waiter brought over their leftovers, which had been packed up in to-go c ontainers.  She pushed the bag of food toward Sam.

"You've got chicken tikka instead of turkey, aloo gobi for your mashed potatoes, mattar paneer for your veggie, and some gulab jamun instead of pumpkin pie.  It's not perfect.  It's not great—"

"Actually, the mattar paneer was pretty great.  But I get what you're saying."  Sam watched her hand a credit card off to the waiter, then he glanced back at what must've been at least $60 worth of food in from of him.  “I can’t take all this.”

She rebuffed his attempt to take less for himself.  "I’m going out of town for the holiday.  It’s just going to be wasted if I take it.”  

“Thank you.”  He didn't know how to express how powerful such a small gesture was to him in that moment, but he suspected that she knew.

“I want you to do something for me.  At some point tomorrow, make a list of ten things that you are thankful for.  They don't have to be profound, just sincere.  Being thankful for leftover curry is sometimes enough to make it through a tough day."  He smiled helplessly at the thought.  "If you email me your list, I'll bring you some tamales when I get back into town on Sunday."

"You can't just bribe me with food all the time."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you've had my tía's pork tamales."


End file.
